“Is that all it takes to get you to back down when you’re being a bitch? Wow, Olivia, you have a superpower or something.” Emma’s tone is spun sugar, but it lands like an anvil on the table, though the tension is hardly new. Usually, Emma’s the only one among us with the stones to bite back at Avery. They’ve known each other since first grade, when they met at a fancy-ass private grade school in Wellesley. They wrestle back and forth for queen bee dominance.
Margot Kim and Sierra Watson—Princeton and Yale, respectively—are looking anywhere but at Emma or Avery, refusing to wade into this conflict. I catch Sierra’s eye briefly, and we exchange a knowing glance. This has to be about Tyler, Emma’s boyfriend and Avery’s stepbrother of a year. He’s supposed to be off-limits to the Ivies—Don’t shit where you eat, Aves said, cruder than her WASPy exterior hinted. But Emma started going out with Tyler anyway, and Avery takes every chance she gets to jab the knife under Emma’s rib cage and simply…wriggle it around. Having a weakness is dangerous where Avery Montfort is concerned.
The confrontation fizzles as we all dive back into our phones. We’ve fallen into what might be termed companionable silence, though we all know it’s more of a détente. I scan the room, taking in my fellow students who are assigned to lunch slot B. It was Sierra’s job to ensure that all the Ivies got a class schedule that put us in the same lunch period. That’s her hook.
In a school of elites, Avery has a way of attracting the very best to stand by her side. President of the Girls Who Code club, Claflin chapter, Sierra figured out how to hack into the school’s administrative system before spring semester freshman year, and it remains her most useful asset as an Ivy. Margot is the school’s premier actress, surely Broadway bound; she can charm (i.e., deceive) teachers and students alike. Emma’s the social Renaissance woman, in with every conceivable group. As captain of FIRST Robotics, first-chair flute in band, butterfly champion on the swim team, and tech director for the drama club, Emma’s got a finger in every pie.
I’m not technologically or socially gifted, but as one of the few scholarship students at Claflin, I offer Avery a bit of social-proofing. How open-minded and gracious of her to hang with me. Although I am editor in chief of the Claflin Ledger. Well, co-editor. And it’s my access as a work-study student in the main office that gave Sierra the edge to hack the scheduling system. I’m just as valuable as anyone else.
I meet eyes with Ethan Kendall, who throws me a wave from four tables over, even though I’m going to see him next period. Hasn’t he learned yet that I never acknowledge him outside of journalism class? I can’t, because that would mean—
“Olivia Caroline Winters!” Emma scolds me as if she were my mother. Though as my roommate and the neater of the two of us, it’s not the first time. “Are you flirting with Canadian Ken?”
This is why I couldn’t wave at Ethan even if I wanted to, and the microsmile I let slip was a mistake. I opened myself up as the next social sacrifice, and Emma seized the opportunity. I don’t really blame her. Any of us would do the same. No Ivy is exempt from being terrible. These are my best friends, but sometimes I hate them.
“I wasn’t flirting,” I mumble. “Don’t be an asshole.” I smack Emma playfully on the shoulder. Unfazed, she merely shrugs and checks her phone again. It sets us all off. We check our phones, too, even though it’s only quarter to one and everyone knows that the magic hour is yet to come. Anxiety is contagious.
I steal a glance back at Ethan. His unruly dark hair is an inch too long to be fashionable. Freckles dust his light brown cheeks, his face offset by chunky plastic-framed glasses. He’s what defensive suburban moms would call “husky.” The opposite of a Ken doll. Emma really is an asshole. But I can’t help the way my whole body flushes at the sight of him. He’s perfect.
He’s also a walking Canadian stereotype, which means he’s far too nice for the likes of me. I don’t deserve him.
“Hey, babe, budge over.” Tyler appears, and Emma does as he says, scooting over in her chair until half her butt hangs off, so he can share her seat. Now, this is the kind of boy who is acceptable for me to be attracted to, according to Ivy standards: tall, with an aquiline nose and chiseled cheekbones, a dimpled smile that can—and does—literally charm the pants off people. Tyler looks like he should be on the CW. If he weren’t going to major in engineering at Cornell next year, I’m sure that’s precisely where he’d be.
A plate with the largest slice of cake I have ever seen clatters onto the table in front of him, and me, since I’m next to Emma. I can see thin slivers of carrot poking out from the doughy layers, cream cheese frosting standing tall atop it, at least a half inch thick on all sides. My mouth begins to water, but Coach will kill me if I indulge. Even though I’m pretty sure the cream cheese frosting counts as protein, and that’s what matters, right?
“That looks like half a cake,” Sierra says, licking her lips. She can’t have any, either. We’re on the crew team together.
“Susan gave me an extra-large slice. A congratulations gift.” He grins.
Most of the stations at the dining hall are self-serve, but not dessert. Once upon a time, it was, too, but last year a boy walked out with an entire pie. Dining employees started staffing the station shortly after that.
Avery glares at her newly minted stepbrother, and her nostrils flare. “Does Cornell know they accepted a total douchebag? You don’t see Margot rubbing it in.”
Margot nearly drops her phone. I know for a fact that she almost wore her Princeton hoodie today, but Sierra talked her out of it.
“Don’t hate me because I’m stress-free until April.” Tyler flashes Avery a shit-eating grin, then spears a giant forkful of cake into his mouth. “And you should chill, sis. You’ll be out of your misery in a few hours. Mommy’s legacy is going to get you into Harvard.”
“Like your daddy’s money got you into Cornell?” Avery simpers.
I see Tyler’s jaw flex hard, his eyes suddenly flint. I’ll never stop marveling at rich kids getting upset about other people calling them rich. They’re so sensitive.
“So, what happens if you lot don’t get in?” He points a finger at all of us still in school limbo—everyone except for Margot, basically. “Do we have to change your nicknames? Brown.” He nudges Emma. “Yale.” Indicates Sierra. “Penn.” Pushes his slice of cake toward me. “And brilliant Harvard.” He grins across at Avery. “What are your safety schools again?”
“Fuck you, Ty,” Aves spits.
“The nicknames are stupid,” Margot says. “I might not even go to Princeton.”
“What?” Avery is horrified. “Of course you’re going to Princeton! You got in!”